


May Be Surprised

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Author's Recommendations [31]
Category: Cable (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cheating, Feminization, Good Old Fashioned Catholic Guilt, M/M, Pregnancy Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 07:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20811275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank has to tell Nathan the truth. He just has no idea where to start.Follow-up to Wouldn't Hold My Breath.





	May Be Surprised

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/gifts).

> I'd be nothing without Inbox's brilliant ideas to play around with.

For about a week, Frank lives in fear of his goddamn phone.

He waffles on the need to call Nathan before Nathan calls him, knowing he's being an asshole and not being able to proceed any faster for that knowledge. This would all, he thinks, be a hell of a lot easier if Stryfe weren't such a self important drama queen and could have actually passed as Nathan -- it would simplify things if Frank could hold some measure of having been tricked. 

He can't lie about the fact that he clocked the smug bastard's deceit point-five seconds after seeing him on the bed, and he can't lie about going ahead and getting in bed with him anyway. 

It's not a guilt thing. They're not dating and they're definitely not exclusive and Frank isn't interested in any of that shit anyway (the thought, in fact, makes his breath come up a little short, unpleasant tightness in his chest and a roiling in his guts that tells him it's a Bad Fucking Idea) but the fact remains that he'd definitely slept with a guy who pretended to be Nathan to get him there, figured out the act damn near immediately, and went ahead with it anyway. 

Frank doesn't want to think about _ why _that makes him an asshole, he just accepts the fact that he is. 

Two days after he'd booked it out of that hotel, intending to never have to worry about the asshole he'd just fucked cross-eyed again, he gets a text on his private phone, Stryfe not bothering to play Nathan with yet another new number. Stryfe's message is ominously brief: 'I'll be in touch' and nothing more. Frank deletes it, then sits around worrying for hours if he shouldn't have kept it anyway, if there mightn't have been something worth digging into, where the message came from, who owned the number or whatever. 

Except Frank's not savvy enough to do any of that shit on his own, and he's sure as hell not going to squeeze any of his tech guys for an assist with this fuckeroo. 

The idea of showing it to Nathan to some end fills him with a slick, ugly sense that's way too close to self-reprimand. Deleting it had been the right move. Deleting it had been, really, the only move.

Every day that passes since it happened without Nathan calling with a job offer -- or, maybe it wouldn't be that, maybe he'd call just because he was looking for some R&R and thought of Frank, and Frank's not sure if that possibility would be better or worse -- is a relief and another day to tie himself up with the need-versus-avoidance of calling Nathan himself. 

He needs to call him. Hell, just to let him know his clone -- mutant goddamn bullshit -- was around and looking for ways to make him miserable. 

He needs to call him because he wants to be honest, good things are built on honesty and trust, and even if they're not dating the... working relationship they've got _ is _a good thing. He's not going to fuck it up by being a jackass.

It still takes him a week, half hoping Nathan would take the choice out of his hands by calling, texting, or showing up. Frank could claim being too busy to have reached out, and it wouldn't exactly be a lie; he's running down leads even if he's just a touch distracted by his own fuckshit life, which means his hands are full most nights and he's never sure what timezone Nathan might be, what with his tendency to disappear and turn up with his nose firmly in the business of some unstable foreign country. 

Excuses. He knows he's making himself a hell of a lot of excuses, and rather than do anything about it, he lets a whole fucking week skate by on those excuses before he finds himself staring at his phone in his hands.

Actually calling is out of the question. For one thing, he's got no idea where the hell Cable is at any given time. They go their separate ways, Summers is as likely to be seen on the streets of New York in a random encounter as he is to be spotted on the news, taking part in some mutant bullshit overseas. Fingers in too many pies, in Frank's opinion, but maybe that's just his too-human estimate about a mutant.

Either way, the point stands: he can't just call any time, because it might be mid-afternoon here, but god knows what time it is wherever he is. Frank hates leaving messages, hates playing phone tag. That's one good outcome of everyone having a personal cellphone these days: texts can be sent anytime and answered anytime.

He doesn't want to do this over the phone anyway. Sure as hell not over text. He needs -- he _ wants _Nathan to meet up with him in person, soon if possible, and they can have it out face to face. Nathan can do his weird telepathy shit if he needs more proof than Frank's word, or whatever else it might come to if he gets... 

Well, whatever. 

[SENT 0312: You got time to meet up?]

It's not something Frank's used to asking. Usually it's Nathan imposing, Nathan reaching out. Frank can count on one hand the number of times he's initiated anything between them, and it wouldn't even take all the fingers on that hand to count.

The reply is faster than he'd expected; damn near instant.

[RECEIVED 0312: for you, anytime]

[RECEIVED 0312: business or pleasure?]

If that doesn't tangle his guts up further, Frank can't imagine what would. It's ridiculous, feeling anything like guilt about this horseshit. He's caught in the middle of Nathan's sci-fi bullshit, bitchy clone looking for ways to hurt him, trying to trick Frank into sleeping with him. Idiot clone presuming a hell of a lot to think they mean enough to each other for it to hurt Nathan.

_ You're going to break his heart, aren't you? _

Stryfe's taunt filters through his head, makes him feel squirmy and heated. He's not exactly certain which he finds worse: that he did what he did, or that he's worried it _ is _ going to matter, that it's going to be the thing that makes this whole whatever-the-fuck they're doing blow up in his face and disappear. It's one of the very few plainly good things he's got -- even if it's meaningless in the long run -- and he doesn't want it to end over something stupid.

He doesn't want it to end at all.

Exhaling a tight breath, he taps out his reply.

[SENT 0320: Business first]

Nathan must be local, and not currently on a job, because his reply comes promptly once again. [RECEIVED 0321: always is with you. your place? time?]

Might as well do it here, Frank figures; might as well do it sooner than later rather than give himself more time to stew over it. Like as anything, he's being fucking ridiculous about it. It's not like they're in an actual relationship. Business with... benefits. Kill creeps together and occasionally fuck each other stupid, that ain't a romance. It's not any kind of arrangement he's had before -- he flushes hot again, thinking about fucking Logan teasing him about that when he'd told him -- but the important thing to preserve here isn't the part where they keep ending up in bed together. 

They work well together. Frank doesn't want that to stop.

So he sends another message, agreeing that his place is fine and leaving the exact time up to Nathan. He's not going to rush him, Nathan always seems to have a great many irons in the fire, and Frank doesn't expect to rate high enough on his list of priorities to postpone any other plans that might be in the works.

Sooner would be nicer, if only so Frank can stop gutting himself in private over something that, by rights, shouldn't fucking matter.

[RECEIVED 0334: give me an hour. text you when i'm there.]

Meaningless. Nathan has the fucking code to get through the gate; Frank gave it to him ages ago. He's _ used _the code, showing up uninvited because Frank'd fallen off the grid and he was worried. It's a stupid sort of politeness, to knock on a door you have a key for.

An hour is long enough to chase himself through a shower and eat something. He puts coffee on. Good host bullshit; makes sure there's nothing egregious sitting around the living space, sets two clean mugs on the counter by the drip pot, puts his chipped plate in the dish drainer rather than leave it in the sink. He realizes he's fussing the same way he realizes he's being an idiot about the whole damn situation, but about either thing there's nothing he can do about it.

It's almost an hour on the dot when his phone buzzes an alert and Frank, in good host mode, is already out to meet Nathan as he crosses up from the gate. He looks pleased to see Frank and Frank forces himself to beat the anxious, squirming thing that's been contorting his guts into knots for the last few days into stillness.

Good things end, same as every other thing in the world. If this is the way this particular good thing is going to end, so be it. He's weathered worse before, and he'll continue weathering life's ugly little losses until he finally drops dead.

"You gotta let me buy you a decent couch, Frank," Cable says, sitting to lounge against the arm, one leg drawn up so he's spread out, languid and so goddamn good looking it's unreal. He's got no goddamn business looking that good. "This piece of shit is going to murder you one of these days, you fall asleep on it."

Frank makes a noise, setting a mug of coffee on the table within Cable's reach and questioning his own intelligence at providing hot drinks to break this particular news. They've been doing this song and dance for long enough that Frank's fairly confident that Nathan isn't fingering around his his head uninvited -- he only does that when Frank's knocked senseless, and even then only long to make sure Frank's still kicking around upstairs. Nathan is welcome if they're fooling around, or there's emergency intel to impart during a job, or if Frank specifically says so, but otherwise, Nathan keeps himself to himself.

That was a rule they'd made, to keep things some version of fair between them, and the fact that they've gone through the trouble to make that sort of rule goes a long way in showing how incredibly fucked Frank's allowed himself to get here. 

"I got something you needta hear," Frank says, and waits while Nathan sets his cup back down with an approving noise, lounging back into his corner of the couch. He's so goddamn calm, so open here. Frank could kill him in the space of a second and Nathan trusts him enough not to be taking advantage of all his abilities, trusts him to not default to violence enough that he's not already pulling Frank's brain apart for the root of his agitation. 

No, those big hands spread, palms toward the ceiling, in a little gesture of welcome, and Nathan just looks at him, mild and welcoming even though he's got to be able to tell that Frank's irritated.

Frank's fingers drum on his thighs. The words stick in his throat, the things he needs to say, the things he goddamn called Nathan here to tell him. For god's sake, he needs to at least warn him that Stryfe's aware of their... arrangement and looking to use it to cause Nathan trouble. 

Instead of saying a single fucking word, Frank grits his teeth, feeling his face heat in an ugly blush, anxiety tangled with a curling upset that makes him feel so tongue tied that he might as well not _ have _a tongue to speak with at all. 

After almost a solid minute of strained silence, Frank forces himself to exhale the breath he's been holding, glancing up at Nathan and then down to one side, raising a hand to tap his own temple, two sharp little blows where the bone is thinnest. 

Nathan doesn't need to touch him to make the telepathic shit work, though Frank thinks there might be some kind of connection to proximity and the effectiveness of the ability. To be completely honest, he doesn’t think about it much because the more he tries to ponder that sort of shit the weirder it gets. 

But since Nathan has picked his way into Frank’s brain from across and active battle field, it’s a pretty safe assumption to make that Nathan can do this without touching. So it's definitely just for effect that Nathan leans forward and puts his big metal hand over Frank's resting on his knee with all the power that hand confers. It should feel like a threat, should make Frank nervous knowing what he's about to share, but it's not and it doesn't.

In his head, Nathan feels like... like order and cool, collected power. Nathan is the assurance of born leadership, the confidence of a man who's learned to accept the rocking and the rolling of the path life takes him on. It's different when they're fooling around, when they're fucking; dignity and self-possession go right out the window with Nathan in that kind of moment. 

Frank's not sure he deserves to know Nathan that well, and feels rather than hears Nathan immediately shush that idea even as it's being fully realized in his head. 

_ Show me what you need to show_, Nathan says, words pushed into his head, a thought that's not his own, and Frank sighs because he knows from experience that Nathan doesn't need him to show a goddamn thing. If Nathan wanted, he could take it, he could sweep through Frank's head and leave him a hollowed out mess, whip his grey matter up like a bad batch of eggs.

He tries to tailor the thoughts he reluctantly pulls up. It's wrong too, he knows, lying by omission, but being asked to confess it all is too much. He feels like a dirty teen sat down and ordered to describe the smutty skin mag he'd been caught with, and there's no way in hell he's going to share the particulars of that when it already feels like he's copping to such a massive betrayal that he's not got words for it.

He's so ready for Nathan's outrage that for a second he actually thinks he can feel it, his skin prickling with anticipation of pain, ready for something to happen that just doesn't. He's thinking about _ Stryfe, clone, smug bastard tricked me thought he was you_, and he's thinking, _ fucked him, sex in at that hotel we used six month's back, Newark, big beds_; he's thinking _ he wanted to hurt you, use this to yank you around_. He's thinking all of it, carefully tailored to omit his own definite interest in certain aspects, his own pleasure, his own fixation on the idea of Nathan wearing --

"Wearing what," Nathan breathes, and Frank twitches openly at the sound of his voice, realizing suddenly that Nathan's leaned in much closer now, big metal hand braced heavily over Frank's own, weight pushed onto Frank's knee as Nathan curls into Frank's sphere of space. Their breath is mingling, and what he's feeling baking off Nathan and pouring straight into his brain is not outrage at all.

He shouldn't say. He doesn't want to say. He doesn't want to make this any more real than it already is and there's certain things a man should be allowed to have private, have all his own, shameful jack off fantasy he's not demanded to share with the object of. 

_ Hiding something from me, Captain Castle? _ Nathan purrs in his head, and Frank licks his lips, trying not to react, the switch from plain nerves to extreme nervous arousal strange and unplanned for. _ Should I go digging for it? _

It sounds like a taunt, a tease, but Frank knows Cable well enough at this point to know that if he said 'no', the fingers flicking through Frank's mental filing system with disappear and the game would end.

Frank nods instead, just once, a jerk of his head like he's not in full control of his own motions, and tries not to acknowledge how hot his face feels. 

As much as his head feels like a noisy clusterfuck half the time, there's something about the way Nathan can just filter out the meaningless and find all the things he wants. The first time they met he'd slammed unceremoniously into Frank's head after pinning him bodily, disarming him as he casually dug out every bit of useful, pertinent intel on the job they'd both shown up to do, and that was before he'd had any exposure to Frank, to the way his head works. Now he knows him probably better than any other living person.

To Nathan, Frank's mind might as well be a neat little catalog, or a filing system like the nest of folders and documents in a computer. As he picks through those files, it spreads out in Frank's brain, apprehension clogging his ability to fully enjoy the excitement he fees radiating off Nathan at the sudden expansion of Frank's initial tailored memory. 

Nathan on the bed, dressed in silk and soft, pretty lace. A dozen images, hazier, less real; Nathan standing in the doorway to Frank's bedroom, Nathan sprawled on the couch, Nathan lounging on the floor, Nathan in a number of positions, with and without Frank, always dressed in tailored lingerie, beautiful silk and too-delicate lace. Only one of those pretty sets had been seen in person, but Frank didn't need a whole lot to jump start his imagination. And as good as Stryfe had looked in that silver number, Frank thought Nathan would look better in just about anything he was given.

Stryfe had been good, but Nathan was _ Nathan_, seeing him dressed that way -- even just in his imagination -- has Frank half hard.

"What'd he wear for you, Frank," Nathan breathes, and they're leaning together now, brow to brow, the strong, dull pressure of Nathan's nose pressing alongside his own. "Did he look like me?"

The flood of scantily clad Nathans becomes attention paid to a single one, the Nathan stretched out like a three course meal on the neatly made hotel bed, smirking at him.The silver fabric compliments his hair, looks so _ pretty _Frank wants to be allowed to touch it, wanted it even as he was pulling the room door shut and stepping properly into the hotel room Stryfe had acquired. 

"Is that what got you?" Nathan's voice is low, something eager in his insinuation. "Was it what he was wearing? Or were you just out there looking for someone, anyone to give it to you like you need?"

Frank's hard, sitting there on his ugly-ass, busted purple couch with Nathan half in his lap and leaning in closer all the time. Air doesn't quite seem want to come in when he tries to take a sufficient breath, and he's hot all over, and he's desperately, achingly hard. Nathan's in his head, sifting around, looking for more, for every little detail of Frank's encounter with Stryfe, and Frank can _ feel_, echoing at the edges of the memories Nathan's opened and stirring into, the arousal pulsing through Nathan. 

"Mrs. Summers, you're insatiable," Nathan says, his hand moving from covering Frank's, sliding up his thigh, teasingly close as they share the memory of Frank fucking Stryfe cross-eyed. "I should thank him, taking such good care of my wife when she needed me."

Impulsive, needy the way Frank always gets needy when Nathan starts in on that married shtick, Frank seizes hold of Nathan's shirtfront and drags him into a kiss. Nathan's still in his head, processing the memories, enjoying it, basking in the second hand pleasure of a remembered orgasm; they both moan into the kiss, and then Nathan's hands are on either side of Frank's face. 

There's still shame, a good deal of it, crowded in over the whole of the scene. Obviously Nathan wasn't angry, in any degree he's broadcasting to Frank, and in fact he currently seems so mindlessly hungry says that he was maybe enjoying this concept on a surface level, but Frank's still uneasily waiting for a flip in tone, for this to turn ugly. 

It doesn't happen. 

Nathan picks up his hand, moves it to the other side of Frank, and moves so he's leaning hard against Frank's chest. He changes the angle, pushing Frank into the couch and kissing him again, and it's not a memory, exactly, playing out between them now. It's not Stryfe pinned under Frank, it's not a cocky look-alike, it's just Nathan, huge and gorgeous in his silky, perfect lingerie, all for Frank, ready and eager to get fucked.

"My sweet wandering wife, did he find you lonely?"

Frank’s heart is beating a mile a minute, his head so full of idiot noise that he finds himself nodding, responding to the tone, the promise, more than the words. He can barely understand the words.

Pushed back over the arm of the couch, Frank knows in a dim and unimportant sort of way that they can't actually do this here. They're going to have to move, or else they're going to end up on the floor; his ancient, trash-picked couch simply isn't up to the task of supporting two big guys doing anything more athletic than sitting.

It's very, very difficult to make that knowledge mean anything when Frank's got Nathan literally on top of him, manhandling him to make him tilt his head back and to the side so he can start working a mark into the skin of his throat. Physically, his mouth feels just like Stryfe's had, sharp teeth and threatening force all honed in on a very vulnerable spot. It feels just like it, Nathan's hands on him exactly the same way, and it's a freakish sort of looping quality to it, how this is good and safe and _ right _and that had been so good but but so dirtyshamefulwrong. 

Freakish that Stryfe could make it good by flicking through Frank's indexed memory of how Nathan touches him and now Nathan was playing off of that in turn, touching him where and how Stryfe touched in imitation of Nathan so Frank's squirming, lit up with a need for more while pinned by the frisson of shame at having had this, having allowed this with --

Something in the arm of the couch creaks and then snaps, and Frank knows he should be thankful for the reminder, the reprieve from his own anxiously strained arousal, but he very nearly sobs at the sensation of Nathan pulling away. All that warm weight, all the comforting distraction of being touched like he's the only thing in the world that matters, that's all gone as Nathan sits up and pushes off the couch with a groan. Frank needs a second, to catch his breath, to temper the arousal racing through him, and then he makes himself sit up as well, feeling the arm of the couch rock ominously as he moves. He's got the impression that it if weren't for the upholstery, the arm might have separated from the rest of the frame entirely, the weight of Nathan shoving Frank up against it so tight proving to have been too much, more than enough to pry the arm loose from the rest of the ancient structure. 

He needs a new couch any way. New to him, at least.

"I'll get you a better one," Nathan says, holding a hand out in offering, and Frank's not stupid or rude enough to disregard such an offer. The hand around his own is hot and dry, and even with the momentary reprieve from having Nathan buried so deep in his thoughts it was hard to tell who's arousal and eager, grasping pleasure was who's, Frank can tell Nathan is still hugely, and sincerely, turned on. Nathan's not angry with him, or disappointed, or anything but hard over the thought of Frank so turned on by the sight of his clone in skimpy underwear that he'd thrown caution to the wind and climbed into bed with him. 

Pulled to his feet, Frank lets himself be dragged right in close, Nathan nuzzling his forehead to Frank's. "You can't see how enormously hot that is?" He asks, sounding genuinely amused by Frank's wonderment over his emotional state. "You're one of the most competent killers I've ever met -- and I've met a lot -- but the idea of seeing me in certain clothes is enough to turn that big killer's brain into empty, horny nothing, and you think there's any single universe where that's not the biggest turn on ever discovered?"

It makes Frank squirm a little, face hot, all the compliments a little more than he's prepared to handle. "He said he was going to breed me next time," he blurts, Nathan's hands pressed at that spot between his shoulders and neck, massaging over the knobs of his spine in a way that makes him want to melt. "He said he'd knock me up, do things you won't."

Stupid. Stupid to admit it, stupid to say it that way, parrot back what Stryfe had said, almost antagonizing. Maybe Frank's testing this, too, testing for a boundary to it, a place that stops being arousing and just starts making Nathan angry. 

"Did _ you _ thank him," Nathan asks, and he doesn't sound angry at all as he's backing Frank away from the couch, through the narrow space between coffee table and couch, right back into the brick of the wall. "I bet you did, good, grateful Mrs. Summers, finally finding someone to pump a baby into her."

"I wanted him to be you," he says, breathes, and it feels like his lungs are collapsing when Nathan pauses, that smile softening at the edges, all the playful mean bled out in a moment of honest fondness as he pets over Frank's cheek and leans in to kiss him stupid.

It feels good, always so damn good, pinned up against the wall by Nathan's bulk. He's so goddamn big, in every way, tall and built and completely capable, radiating that sense of confident command. He's got one elbow on the wall beside Frank's ear, the other warm and gentle on the side of Frank's face, gentle encouragement to tilt up to the angle Nathan wants. 

There's not another goddamn human being on the planet who makes Frank feel like this. Feel small and secured and needy and happy about being all those things. Frank's fought bigger men and Frank's fucked ostensibly more lethal men but none of them, no one else, ever made him feel so damn good about it.

Ghost-like hands, warm but too-light, not enough, push his shirt up and smooth over his stomach, up under the shirt to press and squeeze at his chest, tease a nipple, tickle over the bruising on his left side. Nathan's hard when he presses up tight to Frank, and Frank's no better at all, he's probably making a mess all over the front of his damn jeans because that's another thing no one else does to him but Nathan; no one else gets him so fucking wet and desperate before even getting his fly open.

He's got his own hands on Nathan, clutching onto his shirt, sliding his hand down that gloriously muscled back to dip his fingers down the back of Nathan's trousers, not enough room to get more than that because he's wearing those fucking tight, too-well-tailored jeans he makes look so obnoxiously good. There's no space between them for Frank to get his hands on Nathan's package, but he can feel it, heavy and hot against his hip, Nathan grinding slow and subtle against him in a way that's somewhere between good and frustrating.

All of it, all together, all that good, all that very real, very present and in-the-moment pleasure, knocks the anxiety right out of Frank's head. There's simply not room; his own want and the press of Nathan's eager, sincere desire fill up too much space in his head, monopolize all is processing power so he's got nothing left to do with himself but pant against Nathan's mouth as the telekinetic touch starts working his cock, not ever enough but too good to complain about.

There's a sort of fascination Frank's got, at the way Nathan can both be the one in total control like this and simultaneously exactly as desperate and over-eager as Frank feels. Frank's never known anyone who could ring all his bells the way Nathan does, and while he'd love to be able to say it's mostly got to do with how Nathan gets in his head, he's realistic enough to know that's not all of it. 

Frank wants to get down on his knees and choke on Nathan's cock, wants Nathan's desperate hands in his hair holding him and making him take it, to be pinned with a solid brick wall behind him and Nathan's unyielding, unforgiving strength before him and that's got nothing to do with Nathan being in his head. Not in the telepathic sense, anyway. And as mortifying as that is outside of these moments, as frightening as it is to want someone else that way, to trust him so implicitly, right now it's the best rush Frank can imagine.

"I'm gonna have you in bed," Nathan growls, pushing Frank's head back and to the side so he can get at his neck, leave fresh marks, dark and colourful that Frank will be able to look at for days, look at and feel and shiver at the memory of getting. "You’re gonna show me everything you did for him."

There's an edge there, a want that feels so good in the most basic, greedy way Frank thinks he could manage. He doesn't think Nathan's jealous, really, of Stryfe, but there's part of Frank that _ wants _him to be, wants him to be possessive and rough about making sure Frank knows... knows...

"My pretty little wife," Nathan breathes, and Frank's not sure, in the moment, if he's in Frank's head or speaking out loud, "Wander all you want, but you always come back to me."

The disappointment of Nathan pulling away, easing up the pressure that he'd used to budge Frank up hard to the wall, is mitigated by Nathan's hand gripping his, pulling him forward and then pushing him ahead to get going for the bed. Without being told, Frank gets his shirt off on the short walk between here and the bedroom, and then Nathan's brushing past him, stripping down on his own, efficient and eager. 

Never fails to be stunning, Nathan naked and hard and looking at him like he's the only person in the goddamn world he wants to be with right now. 

Laid out on the bed, Nathan's still so big, it's impossible for Frank to forget that he's pinning Nathan because Nathan wants him too, Nathan's letting him. There's not many people in the world Frank thinks could best him in a real hand to hand situation, not if he was really set on winning, but there's something about Nathan that does the trick, that makes him feel like it's an indulgence on Nathan's part to be holding him against the sheets.

And he looks so fucking good. There's soft afternoon light filtering through and around the blinds, so the room's dim but not nearly dark enough to hide anything, and Frank's glad for that because as fun as it can be to have Nathan in the dark, do everything by feel, revel in how they know each other so perfectly well they don't need to see to find the places that make them desperate, getting to _ see _Nathan is always best.

Nathan's hand, firm and warm and metal, presses against the curve of his skull, pulling him down, and that hand should always be a threat but the touch of it is always, eternally, so sinfully good. Nathan could probably kill him with just that hand, but he's so fucking gentle with it, never rougher than what feels good. Frank lets himself be pulled down, thinking about how it would feel, their bodies pressed together like this, is Nathan were wearing that lingerie set.

He doesn't have to imagine too hard; Nathan kisses better, kisses more, but the feel of his body is the same as Stryfe's had been, the breadth and weight and build of him, and that thought as much as the grind of Nathan's cock against his own makes Frank moan into Nathan's mouth. He can imagine the cool smoothness of silk poured over that muscle, the raised edges of the seams; he can imagine how frustrating it would be to have something in the way of getting his hand on Nathan’s cock, that frustration that was somehow part of the overall good of the situation because it forced him to slow down, forced him to be careful so he didn’t ruin anything.

Rocking up into the press of his hand, making Frank keep this excruciating angle so he can kiss him without letting Frank stop working their dicks together, Nathan purrs in his mind, warm gold poured over Frank’s chaotic mess. _ You think I should invest in some lingerie, Frank_, Nathan asks, biting at Frank’s lip when Frank gasps. _ I’ll have to take you with me to get something made. Know I can trust you to tell me what looks good. _

Stupid. Shopping for kinky underwear isn’t Frank’s idea of a good time, or at least it never was before, but there’s something about hearing the offer made now, the idea of being in any kind of public setting, seeing Nathan dressed like that and being expected to have his brain together enough to do anything but get him undressed enough to fuck.

It's that thought, the thought that comes in crystal clear of shoving Nathan, all done up in something slinky and soft, into a dressing room or having him right on the floor, unable to keep it together long enough to make in back from whatever shop they'd be in, that makes Nathan groan, letting up on Frank enough that Frank can get his mouth on Nathan's neck. There's a spot, right at the ridge of tendon, where the skin is soft, that Frank can kiss and suck and bite and feel Nathan melt, every goddamn time. 

He can get him so hot, so worked up just savaging that spot, Frank knows with his hand working Nathan's cock it wouldn't be hard to get him off that way. He's done it before, hard and fast when they're both desperate for a little relief but crunched for time, or slow and easy, taking his time because they've _ got _time, and there's no one in the world Frank would rather waste a few hours feeling nice with than Nathan.

For the first time in days, since he walked into that room and saw Nathan's clone on that hotel bed, Frank's not thinking about Stryfe at all. There's no room in his head for anyone but Nathan, Nathan, Nathan. 

Nathan, dick hot and hard in Frank's hand, slick with their shared precum and getting wetter, Nathan making that soft, rhythmic moaning sound as Frank licks at the raised, red mark he's worked on Nathan's neck. Nathan, dripping molten gold in Frank's brain, the slide of his mind against Frank's full of so much excited, hot pleasure that Frank doesn't even need to touch himself anymore. 

It's not always like this, not always this open and shared between them -- Nathan seems to try to keep his brain to himself most times, sharing just the overflow, a slow bleed of his pleasure. Frank likes it like this, likes the sense that he's got Nathan so hot he can't quite control himself. There's nothing more flattering than seeing a guy so totally locked down on his power letting loose because he feels too good to control himself.

_ Greedy, Frank, _ Nathan thinks, and then, out loud, "Did you fuck him like this, too? Fuck him to distraction, make him feel so good?"

Frank blushes at that, and minds are very strange sometimes, very weird, because all Frank can think of suddenly is Stryfe hurting him, getting bitchy at Frank thinking about Nathan while fucking him, and he can't keep himself from laughing. 

That's the real problem here; it's not that Stryfe figured their... their whatever this is out, it's that even balls deep in another man, he's liable to be thinking of Nathan because no one does it for him like Nathan, no one makes him feel so good, so overwhelmingly, blindly good as Nathan. 

He can feel the press of Nathan's curiosity at his laughter and stifles the noise kissing over Nathan's collarbone, licking the seam between metal and flesh, trying not to care so much about the pleasure that comes from the courtesy of Nathan not just threading himself even further into Frank's brain to fish out the root of the joke. "Wanna suck your dick," Frank mutters, enjoying the way Nathan shivers and groans at the treatment. "Think you can hold it together long enough for that?"

The hand that had been on Frank's shoulder, just resting, now pushes, Nathan settling back against the pillows and shoving him down, eyes glinting when Frank glances up at him. It's a good look on him, slutty and eager, and Frank moves down the bed so he can get what they both want.

It feels good, getting his mouth on Nathan, thinking about how it would be to go down on him in a dressing room in the back of some fancy clothing shop, some dirty sex store, wherever the fuck you buy custom lingerie, the clerk at the counter pretending they haven't got a clue while Frank's shoving pretty panties out of his way to get at something much prettier.

Nathan's fingers in his hair, pushing him down, pushing him to take as much as he can because as well as Frank knows Nathan, Nathan knows Frank, knows he likes it rough, knows he'll let Nathan fuck his face til he pukes or Nathan blows straight down his throat. Hell, he’s willing to do both, if Nathan’s got the patience to let him get his breath back in between. They can play each other's game, no skin off either of their backs because the things they like doing overlap so damn well. Frank likes to feel Nathan’s strength, likes to be forced to take it; Nathan likes how well Frank _ can _ take it, likes the way Frank trusts him not to push too far. 

After all this time, Frank’s made it his business to have learned exactly how to work Nathan over. He’s always strived to be good at the things he enjoys, and with this he wants to be the best. Gold standard of blowjobs, very best just for Nathan, the one he compares everyone else against and finds them all lacking. 

He knows he’s doing a damn good job when Nathan digs his fingers in, forgetting himself for a moment, his mind loud and desperate in Frank’s own head, a soundless shouting of pleasure as he thrusts mindlessly up into the tight head of Frank’s throat. Frank lets himself choke, lets it be wet and messy and loud, because with Nathan spread out in his head like this he can _ feel _, beyond any capacity for doubt, how good he’s making the big mutant feel. Frank knows all Nathan’s tells, every physical sign of him racing toward that edge, but even if he didn’t, he’d know now because he can feel it like it’s his own orgasm rushing up on him, like he’s the one on his back with his thighs trembling, struggling with the most basic etiquette to keep from yanking on hair and fucking that willing mouth.

It’s Frank doing that to him, Frank that’s got this man, so powerful and so controlled and so capable, broken down to mindlessly grabbing for pleasure, desperate to cum, needing it. That quaint curse keeps panting from Nathan’s lips, that and Frank’s name, the only two words he can find anymore; “Oath, Frank, oath… oh, oath,” like he can’t get enough air or enough of Frank, and Frank’s goddamn glad he stripped off his own clothes before they got on the bed because he’s almost as bad, mindlessly humping against the sheets in some grasping, straining bid for his own release. His fingers are so tight on Nathan’s thighs he knows there’s going to be bruises, knows Nathan _ wants them_. 

When Nathan cums, his whole body locks up, hips arched up off the bed, Frank’s hands slide beneath him to hold him just like that, buried in his mouth. He likes this, too, being allowed to linger even as Nathan edges into burning over-sensitivity. He sucks Nathan’s softening cock clean, til there’s nothing left on him but spit, and then he sits up, kneeling between Nathan’s bonelessly spread thighs, hand dry on his own dripping, aching dick, stripping hard and fast for all of two seconds before he’s cumming, shooting off on Nathan’s stomach and spent cock.

He’s still breathing heavy when the bed settles heavily in place, dragging him to the awareness that Nathan had been holding it and them suspended off the floor. He looks sheepish about it, the way he always does when he gets so dick drunk he loses his grip and does stupid shit with his powers. Usually it’s smaller stuff, or the lights going weird, poltergeist-type shit. Frank can’t help huffing a laugh as Nathan raises an arm and he gives in and collapses next to him, allowing himself to be pulled close.

“Bright Lady,” Nathan breathes, wheezing the words with emphasis as he nuzzles himself against Frank’s shoulder, half pinning him. “If that’s what you did for him, no wonder he was offering to give you kids.”

Part of Frank, the part always scanning for a fight, always looking for a way to turn this and any other good thing into one more bloody mess, wants to be angry at the reminder, wants to make it something to fight about. Stryfe had made the suggestion feel humiliating, made everything about fucking him feel filthy and obscene, every fantasy pulled out of his head twisted.

When he sighs and angles his head, Nathan obligingly moves his attention from Frank’s shoulder to his neck, working on that mark again. After a beat, he says, “I don’t want _ his _ kids.” 

His tone is a little rougher than the joke warrants, but it quite clearly lands well, Nathan pausing so Frank can feel his grin, just as clearly as he can feel one big hand spreading over his chest, petting through sweaty hair. Nathan knows better than to say a goddamn word that quick after what could be construed as a confession from Frank, and they settle together like that, tangled in the sheets and each other. It’s too goddamn early to consider really going to sleep; too early and Nathan’s smearing wet all over Frank’s hip with his leg slung over Frank’s, they both stink like sex and sweat and should be at least getting a shower cleared off the immediate to-do list. 

Frank lets Nathan guide him into a lazy kiss, relaxing into the bed and settling into the rhythm of tongue and lips and teeth. It feels good, on a level so deep and basic it feels fundamental, to just lie like this, drowsy and satisfied. 

“You owe me a new couch,” he mutters, and can’t quite help from smiling when Nathan chuckles against his lips, kissing him again.

“Yes, dear,” he says, easy and sweet. “I did say I’d take you shopping. A couch for you, something pretty for me.”

And it's surprising, really, how easy it is to let it be what it is. Something good, and simple, and stronger than can be broken so easy.


End file.
